


fill my lungs and take away the air

by nicotinedaydream



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt Peter, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinedaydream/pseuds/nicotinedaydream
Summary: Roman always destroys the things he loves.





	fill my lungs and take away the air

**Author's Note:**

> So this started off consensual but got way darker than I intended it to be. Read with caution.

Roman doesn't understand how it happens.

One second he and Peter are sharing a cigarette, talking normal shit, sprawled on the small couch in Lynda's caravan, their knees barely touching, and the next Peter is leaning in close after a flimsy joke, laughing softly with those burning eyes and that lazy smirk and his gorgeous fucking lips and all Roman's aware of is the need to know what they feel like over the top of his.

Peter moans into his mouth on first contact, lips trembling. Roman thinks it's cute, _adorable_, that Peter is so damn vocal when being kissed; recognises the shake of Peter's chest, still laughing, softer now, against his mouth. It's attractive in a way it has no right to be.

Roman curls a hand around Peter's throat, squeezes, just to hear the boy's noise of protest as he pulls away for air.

"You're an asshole, know that?" Peter says, hand to his throat, rubbing the tender spot, but there's a smile on those shiny wet lips. Roman is suddenly hungry, _starving_, wants to taste them one more time like a man drowning.

"Guilty," he drawls with a pout, smug. Peter laughs, soft again, almost warm, his eyes drifting toward the window. Roman needs those eyes on him. No, he fucking _craves_ it, like the thirst for blood which sings under his skin every time he breathes in the dense air around him. "Hey," he murmurs, bumping their thighs together. Peter's eyes lock on him. "So. You wanna?"

"Wanna _what_?" Peter raises an eyebrow and leans back, a casual stretch on the couch, crossing his arms, waiting for Roman's answer. He doesn't need to ask. Peter already knows; transparent, even in his laidback nature.

"Make out," Roman says innocently, and drags the nail of his pointer finger across his own mouth. He can play coy when he wants to. Works like a charm. Peter won't be the exception.

Peter freezes, eyes wide and incredulous, as if he's only just understood something he hadn't yet. He frowns, disconcerted, maybe, but then the expression drops and he rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

"Should take your shirt off." Roman allows his eyes to wander, where the bottom of Peter's tee is riding up at his hip bones, flesh a pale ripple under the black material. He growls. So fucking edible.

"After you," Peter replies, quirks an eyebrow.

Roman shrugs. Challenge accepted. He pulls his shirt off, throws it carelessly somewhere behind him, grinning.

"Your turn, Fido."

Peter snorts. "Fuck you." He strips his shirt off all the same, though. Roman counts that as a win.

"I can do that," he says, his voice velvet silk, punctuated by a ridiculous wriggle of his eyebrows. Peter snorts, this one louder and startled, rather than amused.

"Come on, Roman." He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, shoulder blades visibly rigid.

Roman lets himself sag into the couch, closer to the other boy, resting a light hand over the bulge in his jeans. He exhales a quiet whisper into Peter's ear.

"_You're hard_."

The coiled tension in Peter's body seems to build at Roman's deep, throaty words. "I'm not." His breath is jagged, rough, but his voice is somehow composed. Roman is going to fix that.

"Come on, Peter," Roman echoes, smirking. "You know you want this."

"_This_," Peter growls, his eyes blazing, their depths perfervid, "is ridiculous."

Then he lunges for Roman and pulls him into a fierce, ravenous kiss. It's fucking feral, teeth and saliva and sharp, sharp nails. Roman feels Peter's fingers pinch his nipple and groans, thick and low, before moving his mouth down from Peter's lips to nibble on the sensitive skin of his throat.

"Sheeit," Peter breathes, sounding wrecked, _destroyed_, and Roman hasn't even gotten started yet.

He's going to ruin Peter for all he's worth.

Peter doesn't roll over easy, not for anyone, but it's nothing Roman didn't expect. When he finally gets both their pants off and tries to manoeuvre their bodies so Peter's on the bottom, Peter snaps at him.

"Relax, Peter." Peter only snaps at him again, much closer to his junk this time. Roman rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm so scared," he says, carefully deadpan.

Peter's eyes flicker, dirty moss to viridian green, spark of fire in his pupils almost catching, and Roman feels the heavy thrum of arousal between his legs. Peter must notice, too, because he bares his teeth in a snarl.

"Don't you fucking _dare_, Godfrey."

"Or what?" Roman won't lie, he wants to fuck Peter's brains out; knows he can make the wolf beg, whimper, _howl_. He'll never want to be screwed by anyone else once Roman's done with him.

Peter glares at him, like he can hear Roman's thoughts. It's hilarious and still not scary at all, and Roman doesn't want to wait any longer for this. He wants to feel that untamed anger beneath him, around him, squeezing him tight until he can maybe finally, finally understand everything Peter _is _and more.

"Gotta stay still for me, man," he murmurs, not waiting to find out if Peter acknowledges his words or what he's about to do. He spits in his hand, gets his fingers nice and wet so that they're slimy and gross when he rubs them together, before trailing them lightly against Peter's hole. Immediately, Peter tries to squirm away with a loud, "Holy _fuck_!"

Roman smirks, holding his weight down on the couch with one hand while his other circles the same spot, fingers now beginning to tease and massage Peter's rim.

"Roman, seriously, I'm not fucking into this!" Peter bucks his hips, the movement an attempt to escape the weird sensation. Roman uses it as an opportunity to slip one finger inside, and Peter's body freezes up.

"You sure you're not a virgin, Peter?" Roman mocks, wriggling his finger and trying to loosen the clenched muscles. Peter lets out a harsh, tremulous breath but doesn't say anything. "Peter."

"_What_?" Peter's voice is a small fracture of what it usually is. Sounds like he's falling apart, and Roman _still _hasn't gotten started. Huh. Well look at that. Roman didn't think he'd be witness to such a display so soon, grins, eager to see what else will surprise him.

"Nothing," he murmurs, slowly allows his finger to do all the work. Peter's muscles have loosened considerably by now, and so he decides to add a second, nudging against Peter's rim until he's able to press inside along the other.

"Oh fuck," Peter whines, yes, actually whines, and Roman can't help the satisfied hum he makes as he twists his fingers into the lithe body below him.

"Such a fucking slut for my fingers," he chuckles, almost dreamily, and crooks them both up as he rubs Peter's prostate quite a few times. Peter's reaction is immediate; arching into the touch with a hoarse cry, coming so quick Roman doesn't have the ability to do anything but stare and look on speechlessly.

"_Sheeit_," Roman says, low, in awe, as Peter's hips chase the movement of his fingers, throat bobbing, chest heaving, the tiniest of whimpers escaping his lips and echoing in the space between them.

Roman can't believe it. Can't fucking believe it. Peter had come on his two fingers. _Two. _It hadn't even been five minutes, either.

Peter's still letting out those little noises, but they're starting to sound high and desperate, pained, even, and it's only then that Roman realises he hasn't stopped rubbing the wolf's prostate.

Maybe a good person would have slipped their fingers out, soothed their lover with gentle kisses and hushed apologies and kind words. Roman is not that person, never said he was, and instead of doing any of that, he growls out a dark promise, "You're gonna _howl_ when I'm inside you, Rumancek," punctuated by a rough press of his fingers into the soft tissue of Peter's prostate.

Peter whines, guttural choked cry leaving him as Roman teases at his sensitive prostate. Not a howl, not yet, but just as close anyway. Roman watches and waits, hoping for another orgasm, but Peter's body simply twitches and shudders as he begins to writhe.

"Look at you, huh," Roman purrs, then removes his fingers to only press the head of his cock against the slick, now slightly unfurled hole between Peter's legs. Peter shouts when he enters him, pushing into him hard and fast and determined, not giving him any time to prepare.

Peter gasps, moaning, and again it's not a howl, but it's _something_, something fucking hot. Roman gets to listen to the mewling sounds rise and waver as he thrusts in and out of him, rolling his hips up against Peter's prostate, making sure to linger there with every one.

"Come on, Peter, come on, _come on_," he snarls, digging his nails in, scratching them down spread thighs and drawing blood, licking his lips at the intoxicating smell, wanting to taste but too focused on the tight quiver of muscles around his cock. "Fucking come on my cock. Howl. Fucking _do it_!"

Peter does, he does, he comes, and oh does he _howl_.

Roman hears, let alone _feels_ it in his bones, the primal nature of that howl, the pitch of it loud and deep and throaty and so fucking wild, beginning as an almost startled yelp, and ending in a long burst of keening sighs and groans as Roman continues to fuck Peter senselessly.

"Ro-Roman, _oh_, p-p-please, _ungh_, R-R-Roman, plea—_ah_!"

Peter is trying to speak, begging him like Roman knew he would, to get him to stop, to show mercy, but Roman doesn't want to. He's not done, hasn't come, and even if Peter has twice and is so oversensitive that his stretched hole weakly flutters against his cock with every jolt of movement, Roman needs to finish. He fucking _needs it_, Peter's comfort not a factor in his pleasure. It's like the bloodlust, where it'll consume everything in that moment and nothing, no one, matters but his own selfish desires.

"Yes, yes, _yes_, fucking take it, you filthy slut, you fucking bitch, _fuck_," Roman curses, mind and mouth not connected, words spewing out, vile and disgusting but somehow sweet in tone. "You're such a goddamn whore, mine, _mine_, so fucking pretty for me, gorgeous, so fucking good, _Peter_."

Roman doesn't get to witness the agonised and vulnerable glazed expression in Peter's eyes as he finally comes, but by the time he's managed to ease himself out with a lazy moan, his come already starting to leak out of the wolf's puffy and gaping hole, it is gone, replaced by a neutral cold glare.

Roman doesn't notice that, either; too busy smirking down at the mess he's created. Peter shakily rises to kneel on the couch, stumbling as he makes to stand, and it's not until then that Roman looks up and sees.

Peter is staring into the distance blankly, arms wrapped around himself, breaths faint and stifled. It's more than enough to snap him out of the trance he's in, and he hastily scrambles to his feet and attempts to reach out.

"P-Peter?"

"_Don't_." Peter's tone, a quiet and contained rasp of emotion, has him reeling back.

"Peter, I—I'm sorry, I didn't, I—fuck, I wasn't _there_, you gotta believe me," he insists, voice paper-dry, sincere. He lifts a placating hand, before he looks at it, at Peter flinching away, and his face screws up in a pained grimace. "I don't, I don't even, I have no idea why I did that to you, I would never—it was my head, all right, I was out of control, man, I _swear_."

Peter blinks, his eyes glassy, mouth pinched. "Roman," he mutters, and he sounds tired.

"Tell me what I can do, Peter, _please_," he croaks, throat crackling on a bubble of frustration. Peter's body stiffens. "I can't let this be over between us, not like this, I—I _can't_, Peter, please don't make me, _please_."

Peter doesn't respond, watching him break down, nothing but morbid curiosity for Roman to distinguish in his gaze.

"Too late." Peter shakes his head, laughs, so hollow, a bored reaction, meant to disguise any hurt.

"Peter, come on, _please_, we're in this together, man, I—"

Roman is pushed outside, door slammed in his face, abandoned, all alone in the freezing air, naked as the day he was born into this cruel and inevitable eternity.

He understands how it happens, but he doesn't understand—

"_Why_?" Roman whispers into the night, staring up listlessly at the full moon above, and finally lets himself sob for what he's lost forever.


End file.
